Chapter 10: Attercop¹


The men moved down the alley like a tidal wave. Striker found herself forced against the wall; pinned, much as she had been that morning. There were flashes of metal in the surge - as if silent guns were already blazing. But it was more than that, other metal forms swung against legs, peeked from under coats. Under the smell of sweat and cigarettes, she could smell gasoline.

It was the blond who gave the orders. "Go inside, find the owners. You know what to do." He turned his attention to Paully who was standing in the Boom's entrance like an unarmed David in front of the entire Philistine army. "Where's your big black friend?" Paully said nothing. He stood foursquare in the doorway, challenging anyone to make him move. "Look, arsehole, you ain't got much choice here…."

"Paully, do as he says, they're packing," Striker cried out before a big, thick hand was slammed over her mouth. Paully didn't move.

"Christ, someone do something with this shortarse git. Just get rid of him if he's going to make trouble."

Two skinheads hauled Paully out of the doorway, dragging him, kicking and yelling, down the alley and out into the street. The other acolytes swarmed into the interior to find victims among the unsuspecting dancers.

The blond man turned round and came to stand in front of Striker. "Fancy meeting you here," he said. "I believe my brother's got something to say to you."

The bearded man's huge fist crashed into Striker's stomach. She doubled-over, tears blurring her eyes, then gravity pulled her onto all fours. But she didn't have a moment to breath. The blond man grabbed her hair and pulled her head back sharply.

"Let's make this civilised shall we? Start off with some introductions? My name is Nigel. This is my brother, Bruce."

Nigel and Bruce? Since when were gangsters called Nigel and…?

"Don't even think about it," he continued. "Now, we know you're a friend of the Welsh dyke, but we haven't caught your name."

Striker bit her bottom lip, tried to struggle free, but the more she struggled the tighter his grip became on her hair.

"Don't be fucking stupid. What's your name?"

"Striker…," she said through gritted teeth. He pulled her head back again and put a hand on her throat. "Striker West."

Nigel looked at her, amusement on his pink face. "Striker? Shit, didn't your parents like you or something?" Striker's eyes widened and she tried to move her legs but they seemed frozen beneath her.

Then the music radiating from the Boom Shack suddenly silenced. Striker could hear the sound of screams inside, then a gunshot. Jesus, please let Danny be safe. Please let him be safe. Nigel didn't blink.

She was frightened and Nigel could see that. He could see fear oozing out of every pore. He smiled. "Now, Striker, my brother told me what you did to him." He was close now, his voice hissing in her ear. "And you hurt my brother, you hurt me, you understand?"

He pulled her hair again, and Striker nodded.

Nigel sat back on his heels, but keeping a tight grip on her scalp. "Now, me and my brother, we don't have a prejudiced bone between us. I mean, blacks, yids, queers - not a problem. You show me a queer, black Jew and I'll shake 'im by the hand, yeah?"

Striker wasn't sure if she was supposed to respond. She was tempted to garner the bile that was pooling in her mouth and spit it into the bastard's nasty, pink face, but instead she simply glared at him.

"But, dykes," he continued, "I don't get 'em, you know? Makes me want to give 'em a taste of what they're missing, if you know what I mean."

"But, I…."

"Don't interrupt." His voice was calm, but he tugged Striker's hair back so hard her head crashed against the wall. What the hell was it with these two and walls? Since when was brickwork an offensive weapon?

"Now, we're reasonable guys, really. We don't hurt people just for the hell of it. But you and your taff bint, you've been pissing us off. You've been pissing my family off. It's been fucking hard trying to stop my uncle from paying a visit to your little girlfriend, and he's not nearly as nice as us. But, you just won't be told, will you?"

He paused. His grip tightened on her hair. Then loosened again. He almost let go.

"But, like I said, we're reasonable guys. Now, while we were down the doctor's, me and Bruce had a think about what would be the best thing to do with you, Striker, and we've decided to teach you a little lesson, and leave you a little gift that I hope will remind you of that lesson. It's very simple. All you have to do is remember to keep your nose out of our business. Do you understand?"

Striker nodded.

"And you will explain this to that pretty little girlfriend of yours, won't you? Because, and keep this in mind, bitch, we know where she lives."

"You bastard…." Striker struggled in his grip, suddenly terrified for Morien.

"Oi," he replied. "I warned you…." And everything went black.


* * * * *


It took Striker a while to recognise her surroundings when she finally opened her eyes. And when she did recognise them, it took a moment to believe it.

She was only round the corner from The Boom Shack. It was a little passageway she'd passed a hundred times and barely glanced at, only a couple of stores away from the Boom's alley.

The night sky seemed to be flashing with colours: blues and reds. She could smell rotting vegetables… and smoke. The air stank of smoke and it clawed at her throat.

She sat slumped against the wall, one side resting on an trashcan overflowing with restaurant debris. Her entire body ached. Especially her stomach. Especially her head. She took the time to check herself: and despite the aching there didn't seem to be anything broken, only bruised. The pain, she guessed, was simply a result of the treatment she'd received while conscious. Then she had a thought that made her nauseous. A taste of what they're missing….

She moved a shaking hand down over her body, allowing it to rest above her pelvis, then down. Her jeans were fastened. There was no specific soreness, no indication that they'd…. Thank fuck. She let out a shaky breath, then rose unsteadily to her feet, groaning as each muscle protested.

She still wore her leather jacket. She could feel her wallet in her jeans pocket, pressing against her thigh. She reassured herself that her house keys were jingling in the jacket's inner pocket. She could feel the outline of her cigarette packet through the lining, her lighter nestling beside it. She wondered whether to light one, but her throat felt raw and even the call of nicotine would have to wait for its answer until she'd had a drink of something cold. She glanced at her watch, still on her wrist. 11.40 p.m.?! She'd been out that long? Jesus, what had they done to her...?

She ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair and winced and swore under her breath as they brushed a lump the size of an egg on the back of her head.

Other than that, there was nothing… nothing… that seemed different. She didn't understand, but decided not to brood over her good luck and having got away with a relatively light beating, and stumbled out of the passageway into the main street.

There were police cars parked opposite the Boom Shack alley, a couple of ambulances, and behind them looming fire engines. Dazed and dishevelled clubbers were standing in small groups on the pavement. Firefighters were rolling up hoses, packing up. Ambulance crewmembers were providing blankets and oxygen. The police punctuated the scene, talking to witnesses, consulting with each other. She held back, staying in the shadows, worried about being seen talking to the cops. She thought of Morien and the threat the brothers had made.

Now, more than ever, she felt like Morien's protector, Morien's knight - she held Morien's wellbeing in her hands and she could only shelter her by being silent.

At least Morien had missed this. At least, by some miracle, they hadn't known she was here.

Here and there on the street would be a face Striker recognised - Viv the barman; Diane, latched on to some naïve young man. But no Danny. Her heart lurched. And then she saw the unmistakable figure of Thomas lingering as close to the alley as he could, then turn and begin to walk in her direction.

"Thomas!" she called as loudly as she dared.

His head snapped round and his eyes widened as he saw Striker. He hurried over and wrapped her in a bear hug. "Sis…," he said, "Oh sis…." And Striker felt a sob riding through his big body.

"What happened, Thomas, what happened?" she whispered into his ear.

He pulled free of her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. "They took over the club, sis. Bad men threatened them with guns. Took Ray and Fabio. Ray's in hospital now. Then they heard the feds coming and the doghearts got out. But they poured gas all over, and set fire to it. I think we got everyone out, they're searching for… for anybody left, but the Boom's gone, sis. The Boom Shack's gone."

"Thomas…." She couldn't say anything more for a moment, her throat working round the sorrow and disgust that was choking her. "Who called the cops?" Her mind perched on the question, almost as a way of avoiding her other concern.

"I called them, sis," he sighed. Striker had never seen him so tired. "I came back from seeing your lady off…."

"She's okay?"

"She was sick, sis, but she'd gone before they came. I saw them go in. I heard them threatening you. I saw them take Lil' Paully, I saw them take you, I tried to get into the club, but they had guns…. They were spreading petrol everywhere, Strike. There was nothing I could do... so I went for the nearest phone and called the feds."

"Thomas, did Danny get out?"

"Yeah, he did. I saw him not long ago with one of his catties. He's gone to take care of her, I guess." He gave a little smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But the doghearts took you. Are you okay, Strike?"

"I'm fine. I think. They knocked me out, that's all."

"And Paully, sis. Have you seen Paully?"


* * * * *


The anxiety in Thomas's eyes haunted Striker as she walked away from what was left of the Boom. She had only been able to hold him, reassure him that Paully was doubtless fine. "He's probably smoking ganja somewhere totally unaware of what day it is, let alone what's happened here. He'll be okay."

He had to be. For Thomas's sake.

So Striker left thinking of Thomas, thinking of his concern for his best friend, and thinking of his kindness towards Morien. She thought of Danny and how relieved she had been of his safety. She thought of the Boom and the sick emptiness she felt now that it was gone. And she knew that she had to check on Morien: to ensure that the brothers hadn't gone after her after their business at the Boom Shack was interrupted. Ensure that Morien wasn't ill, or upset. Ensure that she hadn't destroyed their blossoming friendship with one stupid revelation.

She thought I was straight.

Had she hoped I was straight?

Surely that means she only wants friendship?

She made her way to the nearest bus stop, determined to catch the first night bus heading east. The air was heavy with humidity and the scent of smoke, and she sped up as she felt the first few fat drops of rain, seeking cover under the bus shelter.

There would be some wait until the next bus, so she made herself as comfortable as possible on the hard plastic seat, curling her long legs under her to avoid the developing downpour.

West's Law of Bus Shelters: wherever you're sheltering, the prevailing rain and wind will always be coming straight at you.

She was half asleep when they roused her: her thoughts lurching in exhausted, whirling dances lead by Morien and Thomas and cold-faced men and guns. This time yesterday, she thought, this time yesterday….

Her head jerked up at the touch on her shoulder and her eyes widened at the sight of two policemen staring down at her.

"Are you all right, miss?"

Striker sat up, pulling a jacket more firmly around her. "Yeah, I'm good. I was just waiting for the next bus."

"It's not a good area to be in this area alone, miss, you know that, don't you?"

"I'm cool, really. I know this area pretty well."

The questioning officer paused, then asked. "Do you know the Boom Shack?"

"The Boom Shack?"

"Yes, the club off the High Street. Do you know about the incident there this evening?"

She couldn't get involved. She really couldn't get involved. For Morien's sake. "Sorry. I've heard of the club, but I've never been there."

There was another pause and Striker hoped her lie had been convincing. But the next question assured her that it hadn't.

"Is your name Striker West?"

Striker shifted back in her seat, suddenly feeling threatened. There was no escape from this. She was backed into the corner of the bus shelter with the two policeman in front of her; their marked car parked on the street behind them.

"What's this about?" she asked, her voice sounding sharp in the confined space.

"Miss West, I'm Police Constable Dobbs from Clarke Street Police Station. This is Police Constable Walter. We've had a call from a member of the public who witnessed a woman matching your description selling illegal substances in this area earlier this evening. Could you turn out your pockets please."

"What?!"

"It is within our power to stop and search you, Miss West. Could you turn out your pockets please."

Striker stood up, furious, causing the policemen to take a step back. "This is fucking ridiculous." She yanked her wallet from the pocket of her jeans, handing it to PC Walter, turning the pockets inside out. Then she ripped her jacket off and threw it at PC Dobbs. "You fucking check it if you're so convinced I've got drugs."

PC Dobbs held her jacket carefully and searched the pockets in the inner lining. He brought out her apartment keys, which jangled on the end of his finger as he handed them to his colleague. He picked her lighter from the lucky dip, raising an eyebrow to his colleague at the miracle of flame. And then his hand went in for a third time.

And pulled out the cigarette packet. Striker knew that was all she had in her pockets. PC Dobbs opened the packet to glance at the contents… and drew out a see-through plastic bag, half-filled with small, white, slightly chalky rocks.

Oh fuck….

She'd seen enough of it in her bad old days to know exactly what this was.

Crack cocaine.

Lots of crack cocaine in easy, dealer-sized chunks.

PC Dobbs's eyes widened in the dark of the bus shelter, and his gaze moved slowly from the plastic bag to Striker's own horrified stare.

His mouth started moving and Striker watched his lips form the words, not fully absorbing their meaning. "I am arresting you for possession and intent to supply an illegal substance," he said. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Striker nodded dumbly. What was the point in protesting?

She could only think of one thing: a little gift.

Very clever.


* * * * *


Striker tried to guess what time it was. About 5 a.m., maybe? Maybe later.

They'd taken her watch. Her wallet. Her keys. Her jacket. She wondered if they were taking her sanity too.

She was sitting in a custody cell. Light was coming from a single, dim lamp embedded in the ceiling, and through a small, high-up window which threw the shadow of bars across the grimy white walls. But light had been changing for some time now. From electric to natural. The sun had risen.

There was a bed in the cell, narrow and hard, but she hadn't been able to sleep. The custody area had been busy all night: cries, screams, expletives in waves. The occupant of the next cell had been shouting - curses and threats - on and off for hours. There had been a time when she's shouted back at him, but the sore throat she'd given herself was in vain. She had sat with her knees up, her hands round her legs for what seemed like half the night. Exhaustion was turning her thoughts into a labyrinthine web full of dead ends of impossible images, voices and threats. She kept forgetting the questions they had fired at her, mis-remembering her replies.

"Where did you get the drugs from?"

"I didn't get the drugs. The first time I saw them was when that cop pulled them out of my jacket."

"So they miraculously appeared in your pocket?"

"I don't know how they got there. Could have been a miracle. God moves in mysterious ways, I'm told." She was getting flippant, she knew. But this was becoming so unreal. She leaned forward on the table in the interview room. "Look, I guess they could have been slipped into my jacket at the Boom Shack."

"Oh, so you admit now, you were at the Boom Shack?"

"Yes, I was."

"Why did you say that you'd never been there."

"I shouldn't have lied. I just didn't want to get involved."

"And you were there when the club was targeted?"

"I wasn't inside the club at that point."

"Where were you?"

"Outside, in the alley."

"So, you saw the men go in?"

She thought before she answered. "No, I think I must have just missed the excitement."

"Yet, you were still in the area over two hours after the attack?"

"Apparently so."

"What were you doing all that time?"

Striker tried to make herself more comfortable on the hard bed and struggled to think clearly. One thought was dominant in her mind, as it had been throughout her interview. If she told the police about Nigel and Bruce - about their threats, about their 'gift' - then the brothers would know she'd talked, and Morien would be in danger.

So she had given an answer that she knew would condemn her. "I was just hanging out."

There was movement at the other side of the interview table, as if her questioners had just scored a little victory. The man sitting next to her, a sallow-faced solicitor whose name she kept forgetting, glared at her dolefully.

Then the web had revealed another, unexpected pattern. "I see from your record that you're being investigated by police up at Percival Hill for breaking and entering a property in...," he consulted his notes, "Easthouses Terrace?"

"I'm what?!"

"Breaking and entering... oh, and vandalism at that address. Are you telling me you know nothing about it?"

"I... I know about it, but...." But she couldn't get Morien involved.

"But?"

"I didn't do it."

The detective looked at her, long and hard. "I believe a Detective Sergeant Manifold wants to talk to you further on the subject." Stupid, fucking trenchcoated prick. She wished she'd pushed him down the stairs when she had the chance. If she'd had the chance.

And then a new question had come scuttling down the strand of conversation like a fat spider.

"Miss West, do you know Gilbert Lamprey?"

To Striker, this had come from leftfield. "Pardon me?"

"Gilbert Lamprey," the plain-clothed officer asked.

"Gilbert Lamprey? I've never heard of him."

"You've never heard of him?"

"No."

Both policemen watched her intently.

"So, who is he?" she said, after a moment.

"We wondered if you had come across him or any of his associates… his family." For a tiny second, a spark of recognition must have ignited in Striker's eyes.

And they had seen it.

Striker sat in her cell with her head in her hands. Family. Nigel had mentioned his family, hadn't he? An uncle. It could be coincidence.

It just didn't feel like it.

The hatch in the cell door crashed open and Striker saw the tired eyes of the woman police sergeant who had been on duty all night. She had been friendly - as friendly as she could be given the circumstances. She had been checking on her every hour or so, since the interview. She had fetched her a cup of water when Striker had requested it. She had even arranged for Striker to see the Medical Examiner when she had mentioned the bump to her head. She hadn't given the details, of course, despite the questions. Just an accident.

"What time is it?" Striker called to her.

"5.45," the sergeant called back. She was about to shut the hatch.

"Hey, did you manage to call my friend?"

"Sorry, no. Still no reply." Striker rubbed her forehead. Where the fuck was he? Thomas had reassured her that Danny was safe. So, why wasn't he home yet? The woman sergeant was still watching her through the hatch. "Is there anybody else I can call?"

Morien. Striker knew that she would come without hesitation, however upset she had been, she would come.

But Morien had been ill.

She was under threat.

Striker couldn't ask her to come.

But she was running out of options.

Of the people she knew, whom she was friends with… was there anybody who wasn't associated with the Boom Shack, who could vouch for her, who could associate her with the world outside drugs and clubs?

Yes.

But he was going to kill her.

Better that than languish in a holding cell. She had rarely needed to ring him, but she'd always had a good memory for telephone numbers. The sergeant was still waiting. "There's a colleague of mine," Striker said. "His name's Kishen Mistry, he's a doctor at St Vincent's. Could you phone him?"





Chapter 11: In the shadow of Crow²


Morien drifted into consciousness.

It was very bright in the room. The curtains were open. She was still dressed in the blue-green dress that was now streaked with dirt from the Boom's alley, lying on top of the bedclothes on her still-made bed. Her head was pounding, and she wondered for a moment if she was going to be sick.

Little crystalline moments from the night before sparkled in her mind. Striker talking, Striker's eyes, the roar of the music and the lights that made her head whirl even now, the gentle touch of a giant hand helping her into a taxi. And at some point she must have made it to bed. Kind of.

There were dancing rainbows on the wall from where the prism in her window caught the sunlight. It must have rained last night, there were still drops on the glass. She couldn't remember.

Had she paid the taxi fare?

Had Thomas paid?

Had he told Striker what had happened?

Oh God, Striker. She didn't want to remember that bit.

She finally made it to her feet, suddenly incredibly grateful that Striker had 'bought' her a few sickness days. Gastro-enteritis. It didn't feel too far from the truth. She faltered to the bathroom, and considered the porcelain for a while, before assuring herself that she wasn't going to throw up after all.

So she moved into the kitchen, took her pills, risked taking some aspirin as well and then drank down a glass of water. Then another, for no other reason than to swallow the nagging thought that she ought to make an appointment with the doctor. Normally, it was at nagging times like these that she would reach for the radio. But her radio was in pieces. She picked a CD from her selection - which Striker had carefully alphabetised, she saw with a smile - and made use of her still-functioning stereo.

She stripped off her clothes, wandering naked into the bathroom, and revelled in the feel of the water as she showered. The smell of lavender soap seemed to wake her a little from her lethargy - it removed the reek of the evening before, the stink of the alley, the smell of sweat, and of cigarettes that seemed to have permeated even her skin. But at the last she hesitated. The smell of cigarettes had brought back the vivid memory of the two of them lost in the calm centre of their own vortex, while the world around them had danced themselves to a blur.

It had brought back the slow-changing shades of Striker's eyes that mesmerised her even in memory.

It had brought back the joy of simply talking without reference to her health or wellbeing, without advice or reminders or pity. Just talk about subjects that didn't really matter to anybody - but had suddenly meant the world to her.

And then the revelation.

Striker was gay.

No, she wasn't gay. She didn't like being labelled.

But she certainly wasn't straight.

Except….

The water beat down on her. She didn't attempt to wash away the smell of smoke. She knew now this was the closest she'd ever get to the scent of Striker on her skin.

Striker didn't find her attractive.

Can I blame her? I'm a ruin.

She turned the water off.

Maybe it was for the best. She wanted Striker in her life. That knowledge had been like a fire inside of her from the time she'd first seen Striker on the platform. From the time she'd first heard Striker's voice caressing her. She was in deep, and she didn't want to get out.

She needed Striker in her life. She needed to know that she could pick up the phone and hear that warm, sweet voice. If only that.

The phone rang. She paused for a moment, remembering too clearly the recent implications of that noise. But then wondered… could it be Striker?

She wrapped a towel round herself and went to pick up.

"Hello."

"Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick."

"Drake, don't you ever work?"

"I've got a free period. Where the hell have you been? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." A big fat white lie. "It's all been a bit of a shock, but I'm okay, really."

"Where were you last night. I phoned."

"Sorry, Drake. I should have called you. I was out."

"Obviously. Where did you go?"

"Are you asking because you're simply interested or are you checking up on me?" she snapped.

There was a pause. "Because you're my sister and I care about you."

Okay, now I really feel horrible. "Drake, I'm sorry, it's been a weird few days, you know?"

"I know."

There was a peaceable silence for a moment. And then the tumult of Morien's earlier thoughts rushed to the fore. She ventured: "Drake, can I ask you something."

"Mmmm?"

"How… how did you know that Kerensa was… you know… 'the one'."

There was quiet at the other end of the line. "I suppose I realised I didn't want to be without her. I can't imagine not seeing her every day, sharing things with her, hearing her voice… you know?"

"Yes, I think I know."

"Why, Mo? Are you missing Sophie?"

Morien sighed. "No, I'm not. I ought to be, but I'm not."

"What's up?" His voice was reassuring and kind.

"I've met someone… someone else."

"Is this the friend who's been helping you?"

"Yes."

"And you think she might be 'the one'."

"I don't know. She's beautiful… in so many ways."

"…but…?"

"She doesn't seem to feel the same way."

"Oh."

"It's just… I don't know if my feelings for her are a result of the last few days… hell, the last few months - she's been so kind to me - or if this is really… it."

"What are your feelings for her?"

Morien smiled. "I can't imagine not seeing her every day, sharing things with her… hearing her voice…." She could hear Drake chuckle. It was a good-natured sound.

"Time, Mo," he said. "I guess you give it time. Figure out what you feel about her. Figure out what you feel about Sophie. This woman can figure out what she feels about you. In the meantime, be friends."

"Since when have you been so wise, brawd bach³?"

"Since I met Kerensa."

"I always suspected she was the brains of the outfit."

Drake laughed. "Yeah, I love you too, Mo. So… were you out with your mystery woman last night?"

"Well, I was out with her for a while."

"Where'd you go?"

"A club she knew down south."

"A club? You?!"

"It was okay for a while, but I left early."

"Didn't set the night on fire, then?" She could hear the amusement in his voice. "Count your blessings, though, at least it wasn't the club that burnt down last night."

"What club?"

"Haven't you heard? It's all over the local news. Something to do with drug gangs, they reckon. I remembered the name, cos it's kind of ironic: the Boom Shack."

Time stopped.

"What did you say?"

Drake's voice came distantly from a lifetime away. "The Boom Shack. You know… fire… boom…."

"Drake...," she swallowed the bile that was rising in her throat. Her voice seemed swallowed too. "That's where I was."

"Mo… Morien…?"

She put the phone down.

Striker. She had to be all right. She had to be all right. I've only just found her. Immediately, she dialled Striker's number. It rang ceaselessly. No reply. 10.05 a.m. But of course, she was supposed to be working today.

She looked up the number of St Vincent's A&E in the phone book and dialled.

Eventually, a harassed-sounding woman answered: "St Vincent's Accident and Emergency Department."

"Oh, good morning," Morien responded. "Is Striker West available please?"

There was a pause. "Um, she's not in today."

Morien's heart sank. "Oh… I'm sorry, she said she was working the day shift today, isn't that right?"

Again a pause. "She isn't working today."

Morien was aware of the hysteria begin to build. "You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you?"

The woman's tone became frustrated. "I can't give you that information. Now, is this a personal call, or can someone else help?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just…."

Morien winced as she heard the receiver slammed down at the other end. She dialled Striker's home number again. Again, no answer.

Striker, where are you?


* * * * *


Striker had finally been released with the sun high and the morning already up and about and causing traffic jams. She was left with a preliminary court date, her own copy of her interview tape, a splitting headache and the kind of mood that made a raging minotaur look like a docile household pet.

Kishen had met her in the lobby with the words, "My wife is going to kill me. And then she's going come after you."

"She can join the fucking queue," Striker glowered as she stalked past him.

They walked out of the police station and Striker walked straight into the nearest newsagent. A pile of local newspapers lay on the counter, emblazoned with a photo that vividly captured her memories of the previous night: the bewildered clubbers, the police cars, the fire engines, the ambulances, the smoke. No, the photo didn't show smoke - but she could still smell it.

She went in search of foreign newspapers, and found the previous day's New York Times, then found herself back at the counter, the photo staring up at her. Her hand hovered over the top copy, before she picked it up, paying for the papers and two packets of cigarettes, and left.

Kishen was waiting for her outside. She ignored him, instead flicking through the New York Times for the sports pages, then unpeeling the plastic from a cigarette packet. "You shouldn't smoke," he said, watching her.

"You been talking to Morien?" Striker said, quietly, not expecting a reply.

"Sorry? Isn't she…?"

"Never mind. Want one?"

"Yes."

"Hypocrite," she said as she pulled out two cigarettes. She lit them both and handed one to Kishen. Then returned to the paper.

"What are you doing?" Kishen asked, blowing out smoke.

"The Phillies had a game day before yesterday. I never got the score."

"Glad to see you've got your priorities straight. Well, if you don't need me anymore, I'll just go to work, shall I?"

"Yeah, you're late. I'm late. Sorry." She wasn't even looking at him.

"Lucky I didn't have surgery this morning."

"Next time I'll try and get arrested on your day off, okay?" Striker bit back, folded the newspapers under her arm and started walking.

Kishen stood on the pavement, staring after her for a moment. And then he opened his mouth. "Well, fuck you," he said loudly, causing consternation to a little old lady who was scrutinizing apples at a greengrocer's stall. "I'm woken up in the middle of the night…."

"It was morning." Striker stopped and turned round.

"Bloody early in the morning… to find that some fucking psycho I have the misfortune of knowing has got herself arrested for drug dealing and wants someone to come and hold her hand…."

"I never asked you to come down here."

"Oh, yeah, right. I was going to say 'thank you very much, Mrs Police Officer' put the phone down and go back to sleep?"

"I needed to tell someone…."

"I stood as fucking surety for you, Striker. They've got my bank details. You could cost me God knows how much, and now I have to apologise for the fact that I have to go to work?"

Striker breathed, a long, slow breath, and let go of enough anger to walk back to Kishen. She looked down at the pavement as she spoke. "Kish…. I'm sorry. I'm being a bitch. I'm not thinking straight. I haven't slept in over twenty four hours. I've had the night from hell…."

"I know."

"And I don't know what I'm going to do." She shrugged hopelessly. "But you didn't have to come down. And… I can't tell you how much I appreciate that you did."

"Blimey, is that gratitude coming from Striker West?"

"Not bad, huh?" Striker smiled, wanly, letting the smoke escape. "Look, I'm gonna head home, change clothes and follow you to Vinnie's, okay? You said you'd called in, right?"

"Yes, I did." There was a catch in his voice that made Striker pause.

"And what aren't you telling me?"

Kishen sighed. There was no easy way of telling her this… but he was going to give it damn good try. "They're not expecting you at work today."

There was a pause. A long pause.

"Excuse me?"

"You really ought to speak to the sonofabitch."

Striker towered over him. "What the hell did that bastard say to you?"


* * * * *


Morien had worked herself into a frenzy by the time she emerged from the Tube station and headed towards Striker's home.

She had spent the last hour picturing Striker burning to death.

She had pictured her unrecognisable in a hospital.

Then she had pictured Striker dead in a ditch.

She had pictured her falling under a bus.

She had pictured Striker drinking herself into a stupor because of Morien's dramatic exit. She had pictured her drunk in a ditch.

She had pictured her in the bed of some one-night-stand….

And that picture was almost as unbearable as the first….

She had pulled some clothes on, almost forgetting to cover her head, grabbing a little corduroy cap as she ran out of the door.

Now, Morien made her way through the concrete housing estate in which stood Striker's apartment block, grey, stained and miserable. The lift seemed to be working, but smelt unpleasant, and she opted for the stairs, taking them two at a time; then a walkway, and she found herself at Striker's front door.

It was painted blue. The paint was peeling. The front door bell didn't seem to be working. She knocked hard.

No answer.

For a long time.

And then the door opened.

In the space of twenty four hours Danny had changed. He looked overcast, tired. His eyes weren't sparkling as they had done yesterday. His clothes looked rumpled and dirty and smelt strongly of smoke. He cleared his throat uncomfortably before he spoke. "Hi… um…," he said, blinking in the light.

"Hi, Danny, I'm sorry to disturb you. Is Striker here?"

"No," he said, "I guess she's at work. I've only just got back myself."

Morien's heart sank. "She's not at work. I called there."

Danny was beginning to look upset. "I thought Striker left with you last night. She was looking for you."

"No, I was… ill. I went home."

Danny blinked. Twice. Then closed his eyes. "Oh Jesus, no."

When he opened his eyes again there were tears.

"Danny, please tell me she got out…."

"I don't know."

And they were both silent - their voices crushed by the weight of supposition and grief.

Danny pushed the door back. "You'd better come in."

Their living room looked dark and neglected. Danny landed heavily in the armchair. His fingers moved to his throat, rubbing as if it was sore. Morien sat on the edge of the couch, clutching at the seat.

The upholstery material was rough and worn beneath her fingers. There was an abandoned spider's web catching nothing but dust in the corner. The daisies sitting on the coffee table were drooping. There were circles on the table's surface, showing generation after generation of mugs, glasses…. Imprints, where once was life.

The smoke from Danny's clothes seemed to hang in the air between them.

Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

There was a creak and the rattle of keys. The front door opened. Both Danny and Morien looked up, startled by the sounds, to see Striker enter in a cloak of grey anger and exhaustion.

Striker had assumed that she would be coming home to an empty apartment. She had planned to rage within its walls, kick the furniture, call the sonofabitch and tell him exactly what she thought of him and his fucking hospital, and then drown her sorrows in a bottle of whisky and a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Instead, in a rush, she found her arms full of trembling Morien.

She could get used to this kind of welcome.

Morien's arms had found their way under her jacket, her fingers now clutching at the t-shirt beneath. Her head tucked itself neatly just at Striker's shoulder, her face buried, so all Striker could see was corduroy. She was saying something, mumbling something like a charm that vibrated against Striker's body and when the taller woman pulled back a little so she could look at her face, she saw the tears that were streaming down Morien's cheeks.

And, for just a moment, the anger and exhaustion and the sheer hell of the night stepped back, and let loving concern take control. She tossed the newspapers onto the table, so her arms were free for Morien. "Hey," she said, running a gentle finger down the Welsh woman's cheek. "What's all this? Are you okay? I was worried about you last night."

Morien almost choked. "You were worried about me? Striker… we thought you were dead. I was so scared…." She buried her head back in Striker's shoulder.

Striker closed her arms around Morien, feeling, rather than hearing, the sobs against her chest. She looked at Danny, shocked at the sight of him. He was breathing hard, his hands were shaking. He sat back heavily, and rubbed his face.

"Where the fuck have you been all night, sis?" His voice was shaking too.

"Where the fuck have you been? I've been trying to call." The anger welled up in Striker again and she loosened her grip on Morien. "At least, the police have been trying to call."

"The police?"

"I'm your friendly, local drug pusher." She thrust Morien away and collapsed onto the couch. "Jesus Christ, I don't know what I'm going to do."

"What happened?" Morien sat beside her, a small hand resting on her knee.

"I've been charged with possession of crack cocaine with intent to supply…. I didn't…." she said at Morien's appalled face "…it was planted on me. By Bruce and fucking Nigel."

"Who?"

"Bruce and Nigel. The guys who torched the Boom last night. The guys who ripped up your apartment. The same guys who in all probability attacked you back in February. And now, thanks to them, I've lost my job and I'm going to get locked up for a crime I didn't fucking commit." She looked at Morien. "And it seems I'm prime suspect for trashing your place too."

There was a silence in the room. A stunning, breathtaking silence, until it was broken by Striker's yell: "THE FUCKING BASTARDS!!" She dived forward picking up the first breakable item that came to hand, and hurled the jug of wilting daisies at the wall. The jug erupted in noise and fragments, as both Danny and Morien ducked for cover.

Stagnant water dribbled down the paintwork, leaving a miserable green stain. The daisies lay broken on the carpet. Striker's legs seemed to give way and she fell back onto the couch. Her face fell into her hands. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Striker…." Morien didn't know what to say. Then: "This is my fault, all of it. It's my fault that the club…. I'm so…."

Striker's voice was muted in her palms. "This is not your fault. None of it is your fault. They would have gone after the Boom even if they'd never heard of you."

"So what did the police say?"

"About what?" Striker looked up.

"About this Bruce and Nigel. Surely they've got to follow up your allegation that the drugs were planted on you."

"I didn't tell them."

Striker's statement betrayed a tone of embarrassment, but her voice was ultimately calm and strong. Again, there was a silence.

"You didn't…. Why? You could clear yourself…."

Striker looked her in the eyes. Morien's gaze was deep green, multi-faceted and sparkling with anxiety. She couldn't bear to see the light go out in those eyes. "Because they threatened you." Striker reached out, took Morien's hand in hers, and simply held it.

That was all.

"Striker, what the hell is going on?"

Danny had almost been forgotten. Striker didn't break from Morien's gaze. "The less you know the better, bro." Finally she tore herself away and looked at him. "Dan… I'm sorry. Maybe you ought to get out of here for a few days, huh? Maybe stay with your mom and dad, or could your girlfriend put you up?"

"Sis…."

"I don't want you to get hurt too, Danny… please."

Danny looked at her for a long time. He didn't understand any of this. But he understood the look in Striker's eyes. Trust me, please.

Then he licked his lips. "Well, I could do with some of mum's cooking…." He didn't seem to be looking so pale now.

"Get her to save some jerk chicken for me, 'kay?"

Danny got up and started for his room. "Save some of my mum's jerk chicken? No way, sis. Come round and fight for it, like the rest of us!" He gave her a wink and a grin and shut his bedroom door.

Then the music started. Striker yelled, "Turn it down, bro, I'm fucking blitzed." The volume went up… for a full five seconds, then turned right down. Striker smiled, a little, tired smile, and turned back to Morien. Giving her hand a squeeze, she said, "And you get out too."

"Get out? I'm not getting out."

"But Morien…."

"Striker, this is my mess, not yours." Morien's eyes were almost cold with determination. Her voice was low and serious.

But so was Striker's. "No, this is our mess. I couldn't get in any deeper if I was wearing concrete shoes."

"That's not funny."

"Nor is the thought of you getting hurt. Please, go to Wales, go stay with your dad or something."

"And what are you going to do?"

Striker pulled away, leant back on the sofa. "I don't know. Got a spindle I can prick myself on? Sleeping for a hundred years sounds pretty good."

"Seriously…."

"Seriously? I'm going to find out who the fuck Gilbert Lamprey is, and why he wants to ruin my life."

"Gilbert Lamprey? What's he got to do with all of this?"

Striker's eyes widened. "You know who he is?"

"Yes. He's listed as caretaker of a few council-owned properties, including the buildings on Tumblety Street. At least he was. I tried to get hold of him, but he was…."

Striker sat bolt upright. "And this was included in your proposal?"

"Well, he was mentioned...."

"No wonder they wanted it."

"So, who is he?"

"Exactly."





Chapter 12: Miching Mallecho⁴


"It's suicidal."

"What have I got to lose?"

"Your life."

"Big deal."

"Striker…. Are you always this stubborn?"

"Do you always nag this much?"

Morien bit her bottom lip, an action that Striker was beginning to find mouth-watering, when she could think beyond her frustration. "You might think it's nagging, but I… I care too much about you to see you in some alley with your head bashed in." She looked away, upset and frustrated, absent-mindedly running her hand over the material ridges of her cap.

Striker watched her, her own anger vanishing in a mist of guilt. She wondered if Morien was even aware of actions. Does she know how beautiful she is? Does she know what a jerk I am? Course she does.

"That cap looks good on you," she said. "I like your headscarves, they're pretty, but the cap…."

"Is that your way of saying you're not going?" Morien interrupted.

"No."

Morien regarded her for a moment, picturing her with tubes in her veins and the incessant beeping of the EEG. What story would I read to her before she died?

Striker had emerged from the bathroom clean, refreshed and too wired to sleep. Her mind had been chasing the events of the last twenty four hours through a forest of thorny problems and shadowy branches and had finally caught a single, struggling idea. A foolish, harebrained idea that had Morien wanting to shake some sense into her.

"I think you're mad," Morien said.

"Welcome to the party."

"You can't go." It had meant to be a plea, but it came out stronger, more desperate.

Striker's eyes blazed white-hot and she was on her feet in front of Morien. "Don't you fucking dare tell me what I can or can't do. You're not my…." And she stopped and turned away, her eyes closed and her mouth pursed.

Morien was stunned. Striker's anger had come from nowhere… and gone again - as if she'd caught her own arrow in mid-flight. An arrow that had been aimed directly at Morien's heart. And instinctively, Morien knew that whatever she said now was going to make the situation worse. But she had to say something.

So she went for the bluff. "If you're going, then I'm coming with you."

There was a long pause as Striker spun round, looking at her in shock. "The fuck you are."

"You insist on going, then I'm coming with you. I know the area. I've been there. I've studied it. It's the one thing that might just make sense in this stupid, insane idea."

"You can't come."

"Now who's giving the orders?"

Striker glared at her: half-furious, half-panicked. What could she say? It'll be dangerous. I can't bear for you to get hurt again. You still have something to lose. So many things.

I have you to lose, Morien's eyes said. But the only words she spoke were, "I'm coming." We're a tough breed, we Welsh.

And that's how they found themselves on Tumblety Street.

It was deserted.

Striker wasn't sure what she'd expected: somewhere in the inner recesses of her imagination had been the image of sharp-suited men skulking in doorways with violin cases under their arms.

It was almost disappointing to find there would be no musical recital.

The street was quiet and shadow-touched, all stained brick and rotten woodwork and cracked paving stones. On one side were crowded, small, two-up, two-down terraced houses; front doors kissing the street. Once they would have been seething with happy life, perfect urban cottages. Once a community would have existed here: housewives scrubbing their front steps, gossiping at their front doors, children playing in the street, workers merely needing to cross the road to earn their living. Now, there was barely a house without a broken window. A couple didn't have roofs. There was a large gap at one end of the row, where one house seemed to have completely collapsed. Where glass still existed, it was caged by bars - almost if the few surviving residents were defacing their own houses to prevent vandalism by another's hand. The houses huddled together in the shade, as if they were scared children hiding from bullies.

The other side of the road was dominated by two warehouses. Once upon a time they would have been handsome red brick buildings, factories providing work, providing life to the area. They could see, high up on one of the buildings, a plaque carved in red stone. But the figures had been worn by generations, until only a few letters - a guess at a year - were left. The buildings had been cursed by time to become barren monsters, holding only memories and rats.

The street was completely silent. Not even a breath of wind touched the dust. The houses stood empty, any of the inhabitants either seeking a few hours escape from the darkness, or concealed behind ragged curtains and decayed wood in terrified stillness. What did they see from their darkness? Did they see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil? But Morien knew that wasn't true, because one of those anonymous dwellers... just once... had made a phone call to the police that meant she was standing there now.

The quiet was both unsettling and reassuring. Striker heard a tiny sigh from her companion. "They spend a fortune building new houses and all it takes is a little imagination and a little care to give this street, these people, a new lease of life."

To Striker it seemed appropriate that the only sound to be heard was Morien. A voice of hope. She looked at Morien, raised an eyebrow, a hand, a silent question.

Morien gave an unsettled smile that didn't reach her eyes, but moved forward, down the cracked pavement, nervously stealing along the wall of one of the warehouses. Striker followed, not least because she didn't want to be left behind.

They made no sound, and no sound came back to them, until they reached the corner of one of the large buildings. And then Striker gasped.

It was as if it was being held prisoner: some fragile, mythical rara avis, caught in the stranglehold of an industrial age. Even in its heyday, even when people used it for worship, for meeting, for silent contemplation, had it ever actually belonged?

A small chapel, swallowed by the size of the neighbouring buildings. It looked as if it could have been a house: no steeple or tower like a church, simply a sloping, slate roof, trying to match those across the road. The windows were high up the walls, again barricaded by wooden planks. The stonework had been white, once. But now its whitewash was grey and filthy in its attempt to escape from the future. Its peeling paintwork made it look as if it was now trying to flee from itself. It was surrounded by rusted railings, once contrasted black. A wooden sign still clung to the metal bars: The Salem Chapel, established 1899.

It had been dying slowly ever since.

But somehow, Striker could see why Morien was so drawn to it. It was special, different, a building that was straight out of fantasy. There was a porch to one side, as if the building had turned its face away from the reality of the street. The metal gate hung partly open, but creaked as they brushed past. The main, double doors were closed, handles locked together by a large padlock.

Striker frowned at it, murmuring "How the hell did you get in here before?"

"Almost a year ago, I came with a group of others from the unit. We were simply checking some of the council's mothballed properties. Keith Tivison had the key. I was so amazed by the place I came back the following week, just to have another look. I did some sketching, but that was it. A few months later, when I tried to get back in, the key had been lost. My proposals for the chapel were all based on what I saw a year ago."

Striker tested the padlock. Solid and strong. She ran short fingernails along the metal plates that held the handles to the doors. Looking around, her eyes settled on the railings that separated the chapel from the street. Then, pacing slowly along the posts, she tested each one.

"What are you doing?" Morien asked, her voice loud in the silence.

Striker glanced up at her. "Archimedes's key," she said, smiling, and grabbed at one of the railings. With a twist and a grunt, it came away in her hand.

"Striker...."

Shaped a little like a crowbar, the metal shaft had a flattened point at one end, and Striker took the point and thrust it, not at the padlock, but into the wood behind one of the metal plates. Barely a centimetre was jammed behind it. Then Striker jumped, pushing down on the bar with the full force of gravity and her weight. The wood cracked, the metal plate swung loose with a rattling crash, still attached to the padlock, leaving a door that simply needed a push to open.

Morien's eyes were wide. "Striker, that's breaking and entering!"

"Hell, after arson, assault and attempted murder, what's a little breaking and entering between friends?"

"Where did you learn...?"

"You wanna go in or not?"

Striker pushed at the door, which opened quietly at her touch. Morien swallowed and they stepped inside.

Both stood for a moment, their eyes adjusting to the gloom. It was as quiet as spiderwebs. Light was somehow finding a way in, between the boards and the dirt at the windows, and like a camera coming into focus, they started to see shadows, then shapes, then objects.

The chapel was still exactly that: rows of pews ran from back to front, an aisle up the middle, all facing the plain, wooden platform at the opposite end of the room. There was another door to one side of the platform, small - designed to be unobtrusive - which could only lead to a vestry. Like its exterior, the chapel interior had once been painted white, but here the paint was shredding away to reveal grey, damp stone walls. The floor, too was grey stone, ironically worn to almost shining white in places. Once there had been hangings on the walls, but all that was left were the shadows of what had once been. Above the platform, almost as an afterthought, was the outline of a cross.

Something wasn't right.

Morien moved forward, Striker following her. A finger reached out to touch the wooden back of the last pew, as if she was nervous to touch it. Nothing happened. No alarms, no raised voices. Morien ran a hand along the wood. Then moved forward, starting to examine them, one by one, her advance quickening.

In the silence, her soft, lyrical voice was almost a shock. "I love these pews, they're so beautiful. Look at the carving on them." She ran her finger round an intricate leaf pattern of an armrest, in a way that made Striker wonder what else she could do with that finger.

"There are hinges on the seats," Striker said, glancing at the detail without much thought. She was far more interested at looking at the expressions crossing Morien's face. She looked like a child on Christmas morning: so much delight in everything she saw. How could anyone have gone through the trauma that Morien had experienced over the last few months - the last few days - and still find such innocent pleasure in life?

You are so amazing….

"Striker, I'd forgotten the seats open!" Morien moved into the gap between pews to take a closer look. "I wonder what they used to keep in these. Spare hassocks or something I…." The words fell away. Her mouth seemed to go slack.

"Morien…?" Striker moved up aisle, until she could see what Morien was staring at. And she found herself staring just as hard.

A distant, insanely rational part of Striker's mind stated that Striker ought to be getting used to having her world turned upside down by now. Certainly, the spinning events of the last few days suddenly clicked into perfect, rational, surreal focus.

The rest of her consciousness simply whirled about her, as Morien's voice, breathless and lucid at the same time, came through the whirlpool: "Tell me… tell me that's not what I think it is."

Neatly stashed, lying in long rows and tall piles inside the pew seat were plump, plastic packets of white powder.

And, at last, a single thought penetrated Striker's adrenalin-shocked mind: Morien was right. This is suicidal. She moved to the next pew and opened the seat. The same again. Packet after packet of smooth, white powder. And the next, opening the seat: "Jesus," Striker murmured, "there must be millions of dollars' worth…."

Morien too was moving further down the aisle on the opposite side, opening seat after seat. Striker could hear, could almost feel, Morien's quick, short breaths as if they were coming from her own lungs. She could feel her heart pounding against her chest. Carried away with the momentum, Striker lifted another pew seat and….

…it was as if her heart had stopped.

No packets, no drugs. She looked closer, trying to wrap her mind round what her eyes seemed to be seeing. Then she wished she hadn't.

Hidden in the deep shadows of the seat was a plastic sheet. It was almost opaque with liquid, hard enough to make out in the shadows as it was, but she knew it was enveloping… flesh… and bone….

She wanted to drop the lid. She wanted to reel back, hiding her eyes from the sight in front of her. But she couldn't move. She could do nothing but stare.

Where there should have been a face was a mass of blood, brain tissue and loose teeth. There was nothing left that indicated that once this had been a human being, a living breathing, loving human being.

Except….

Except… glinting in the half-light, almost hidden under a loose flap of crimson flesh was a single, gold…

…tooth.

And Striker wanted to scream. She could hear her own voice inside her head screaming: You stupid bastard. You stupid, fucking bastard. Why didn't you let them pass? Why didn't you just let them….

Paully. Lil' Paully….

And at last she closed her eyes. It didn't make any difference. She could still see, imprinted on her eyelids, the image of him - what was left of him. And with that image, it was as if every sense was abruptly heightened: the smell of death, the gagging taste of bile in her mouth, sudden sounds in the street outside; creaks, rustles, the sounds of an aged building. She heard the soft echoes of Morien's footsteps and dropped the lid of the pew, then spun round to face the smaller woman.

"What is it?" Morien spoke softly, her voice taut.

Striker put a finger to her lips. "Nothing," she whispered, guiding Morien away from the pew, down the little aisle towards the entrance. "You were right, we shouldn't have come here…." Morien's mouth opened and Striker almost slammed her palm across her mouth, and bent brushing her lips against Morien's ear. "There is no way they would have left this place unguarded. We've got to get out…."

Those creaks, those rustles, they were developing into something more. An aural jigsaw. There were noises now from the street outside: footsteps, voices.

The creak of the gate.

Morien stopped dead.

Striker dragged her back, back down the aisle, past the pews, down to the front. Trapped by the platform under the ghostly cross.

Clear now, a Cockney accent, "They've fuckin' jimmied it...."

"The bosses are going to fuckin' kill us."

Another quieter, calmer, "Sshh, they'll still be in there..."

Barely perceptible: "Shut the fuck up then."

Then nothing but fear and heartbeats... as the damaged door swung open....

Striker closed the vestry door behind them. There was no way of locking it, the key long lost. But, in the dark, they could make out boxes, lots of boxes, carefully sealed, but unlabelled. They didn't stop to imagine what was inside, but pushed and piled as many as they could in front of the door.

Her heart pounding, her breathing so fast she could barely hear the movement outside, Morien sunk down onto one of the boxes. She was feeling dizzy, sick and terrified of losing control. It was creeping up on her. That same feeling of panic that had ambushed her at the Boom Shack. For a second, images spun before her eyes: flashing lights and thumping beats, mingled with fear and screaming and the gagging smell of smoke. She wrapped her arms round her body, almost as if she was trying to stop her chest from expanding with air.

Striker grabbed her, pulling her to her feet. "Get away from the door." She tugged her back into the darkest corner of the vestry, pulling her against her own body, and wrapping her arms around her. In the cool of the darkness, they struggled to control their fear. The silence in the room was only broken by their gasping breath, but beyond that, beyond the door was the ruffle of danger.

Footsteps.

Low orders.

"Check the pews." A voice calm, quiet and full of authority.

One by one they could hear each lid being lifted and dropped back in place. The women flinched, each bang like a gunshot.

Again the voice, laced slightly with humour: "Matey boy still there?"

There was a murmur of affirmation, and Morien could feel Striker tense still further behind her and swallow. The tall American was shaking. Morien could feel the vibration all the way down her body as she stood pressed against her.

Cornered like a wounded animal, there was nothing Striker could feel but fear. There was nothing she could see but Paully's ruined face. Words kept going through her head: a rational voice that wasn't rational at all. Back of the head. Execution style. It wasn't even an accident. Would they be up for the same fate? Footsteps getting closer. She clutched Morien to her, trying to believe that the princess and her protector would escape this and live happily ever after.

Some fucking protector.... She'd got them both killed.

Morien became aware of a shivering mantra at her ear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Morien closed her eyes, holding her breath. She could feel Striker's painful slide into shock, as if it was her own. But she wasn't going to slide. She grabbed onto reason with her fingertips and held on for Striker's dear life. Exhaling slowly, holding her body completely still, she could feel Striker's hand pressing into her waist. She covered it with her own, trying to instil some kind of calm into them both.

Boots against stone, shuffling outside the door. They could hear the door handle scraping against the boxes piled against it. Morien's eyes flicked open. The vestry was only a small room, the walls as dirty a white as the main chapel outside. There was a tiny window high up above them, which looked partly bricked up. There was no chance of escape through there.

Voices through the wood.

"The door's locked."

"It can't be locked. There's no key to it."

The door rattled, banging against the boxes.

A snarl. "It's fucking barricaded, you prick. There's someone in there."

Striker swallowed again, bowing her head to find an ear. Her mouth moved, although barely a word could be heard. Her utterance a single, shaky exhalation. "Three of them… maybe four."

Morien clutched Striker's hands at her waist. Her mind trying to settle on anything that might help. She leant her head back against Striker's shoulder, feeling her friend's heartbeat strong against her back, merging with her own. From her new viewpoint her eyes settled on the shadowed ceiling… darker in the far corner. A dark square.

The door banged against the boxes again. The boxes quaked, shifting millimetres. Angry voices outside. Morien turned her head, her lips close to the column of Striker's neck. In other circumstances… maybe in another life now… but maybe…. "Striker," she whispered. "Could you reach that hatch?"

Striker's hands moved, abruptly, abandoning their warm home at Morien's waist, and landing suddenly on her arms. A brief pat, a fleeting pressure on her cap - almost automatically, a faint kiss, a nuzzle that said Well done - and Striker flew across the floorspace. She scrambled up onto another box and reached up.

The door was edging open, the boxes wobbling, shifting, millimetre by millimetre. Swearing, encouragement, more swearing drifted through.

Striker's fingers touched the wooden cover of the hatch in the ceiling. On tip-toe, stretching as high as possible, she seemed to grow further inches in her determination. The hatch moved, dislodging dust which showered down onto the tall woman. Momentarily, she coughed, blinking, but spluttered, "Come on," not caring any more whether the men heard her or not.

Morien scampered across the floor to Striker's outstretched hand, and suddenly she was up in the air, Striker's hands back round her waist, lifting her. She grabbed onto the hatchway, pulling herself up through the hole, her arms straining at her own weight. With one last push she found herself face down on wooden floorboards, thick with dust. She turned, reaching a hand down to Striker, and together they pulled the American up - Striker wincing and breathless at the scrape of wood against her already bruised body - then pushed the hatch cover back into place.

There was a crash from below as the door finally gave and boxes sprayed across the vestry.

"There's no one here."

"Could these boxes have fallen against the door?"

"Yeah, and I suppose the boxes jimmied the lock out front as well, you wanker."

They were in an attic. Once a storeroom, the small space was almost empty, with only a few broken chairs and a large wooden crate clues to its erstwhile use. They were right under the roof and the ceiling sloped to such a degree that Striker could barely stand upright. It was filthy, and smelt of damp, and it finally hit Striker what had bothered her below. From the outside, the chapel had looked neglected and dirty. But in the main room there had been no dust. Nothing could be contaminated. Everything kept neat, ordered and wrapped in plastic.

She grabbed the crate, full of paper and what looked like old hymn sheets, and with the strength of the desperate, pushed it across the floor to cover the hatchway. It would be almost impossible for the men to find a way up here, but now there was no way back for them.

She looked at Morien, who was dusting herself down as if there was nothing wrong. There were voices from the men below, and banging. She could tell they were trying to get the hatchway open, but this crate was too heavy to budge, compared to the smaller boxes.

"What now?" Morien's voice came to her through the shadow.

Striker ducked down as she came towards her, her hands feeling along the dark, oblique wall. "Here," she said, suddenly. "Help me." More wooden boards, all but camouflaged against the grimy brickwork.

There was a disagreement going on below, but they could barely make out the words above their own concentration. The damp wood was ripping, the rusty nails that attached it to the plaster were bending. Quickly, they were able to work the few boards free, to find hidden behind it, a skylight.

"Hardly Victorian," Morien commented quietly.

"You complaining?" Striker retorted, trying to find a way to open the window. The glass was still intact, wedged into place by a layer of weather and grime. The catch was jammed and immovable.

"Fuck it!" Striker exploded. She hit the frame in frustration. It didn't move.

There was another series of thumps from beneath the crate, another burst of expletives below in muffled echo.

Striker grabbed one of the broken chairs. "Get back," she said. Morien pressed herself against the wall as Striker swung the chair back and flung it against the glass.

The glass remained unbroken. The chair shattered into pieces, leaving a single leg in Striker's grasp. There was silence. "I don't fucking believe it," Striker muttered. She went for a second chair and was about to hurl that at the window when something came whizzing through the floor, so close she could feel the air graze her face.

She froze.

Complete silence.

And then another bullet penetrated the floor.

All she could see was Morien's eyes, a shocked green, staring back at her.

The floor creaked beneath her feet. How long would it take their weight?

She could see Morien's lips moving: "Don't move!"

Striker nodded.

Another shot.

Striker risked a step back, balancing on the balls of her feet, using the chair to steady her. The floor creaked faintly.

Another shot erupted through the floor, an inch from where Striker had been standing, and exploded like a firework through the skylight, cracking the glass.

For a long moment, Striker held Morien's gaze, until her mouth broke into a wry grin. "Cool," she said, an eyebrow lifting, but her voice was shaky. Using her entire body, the space available to her, and every ounce of the terror and adrenaline that was coursing through her body, she swung the chair back and, with an explosion of sound, glass and wood, smashed the window.

The skylight was low enough for both women to scramble out of it with ease, manoeuvring themselves onto the slipping slates of the roof. They could hear other gunshots, but none came near them.

A slate came loose beneath Striker's arm. They watched it slide down the roof and crash to the ground below.

"Oh shit."

Again Morien found herself trying to catch her breath, her eyes closed. Think, gwyrionyn, think! She groped for her bearings. They were staring up at the miserable red brick of the second warehouse. Tumblety Street would be to their right... so... the alley....

The alley where she'd been attacked was below them. Which meant….

She swallowed her fear and made a decision. Slowly, spreading her weight out as much as she could, she inched down the roof.

"Morien, what the fuck are you doing?" she heard from behind her.

As she reached the guttering at the bottom, she eased her upper body up so she could look down. It wasn't too high a drop, but not low enough to ensure a safe landing. But what did catch her eye made her smile. God bless twentieth century Health and Safety officers.

"Come on," she called back to Striker, and launched herself off the edge of the roof.

Striker almost screamed.

She was on an unsafe roof, shit knew how high above the ground, the body of one of her friends decomposing in a pew seat below her, there were gangsters after her, she was beginning to feel light-headed from panic and exhaustion, and her would-be girlfriend had apparently just jumped to her death.

Surreal didn't come close.

Another shot came from below, this time zipping through the broken skylight. As if she hadn't enough incentive already, it spurred her to a gentle, wobbling slide down the roof, until her boots were in the guttering. She too eased herself up... to find Morien looking up at her, worriedly, from just a few feet below, having landed on the warehouse's old metal fire escape.

Jesus Christ, I love you, Morien, but don't ever do that to me again.

Striker jumped. Slates came tumbling down after her, crashing to earth, and her boots landed with a clang on the metal staircase.

Both women dashed down the steps, tasting freedom, and pelted down the alleyway. They didn't stop to look, but ran down Tumblety Street, away from the chapel. A shout went up behind them, loud enough to wake the dead. "THEY'RE HERE!"

Then running footsteps.

With longer legs, Striker found herself in front, reaching back to try and help Morien along. They could hear the pursuit behind them, and Striker glanced back to see two... three... then a fourth man spill out of the chapel entrance to join the chase. Ghouls. Skinheads and suits, but no sign of the brothers. The women hit the corner at full speed and careered down another road, perceiving now the sound of traffic from up ahead.

"There...," Morien gasped, and in front of them was a bus stop, a large red double decker seeming to wait for them. With a cough of exhaust it started to move as they approached.

"Stop!"

As if the driver could hear them.

Striker gripped Morien's arm, and with a single, enormous leap, she reached the pole at the back of the bus and the momentum threw them both inside onto the floor.

They looked up to see the bemused stares of passengers; and then back to see their pursuers skid to a frustrated stop on the pavement.

For one moment Striker wondered if she had the energy to get up from the floor, but Morien staggered to her feet and pulled her friend up with her. Striker crashed onto the nearest seat, her heart pounding and her breath hurting her. Ignoring the whispers of their fellow passengers, she pulled Morien down next to her, and unwilling to let go of the reassuring presence, she kept Morien's hand cocooned in her own.

Slowly their breathing evened, and Striker looked at Morien. Her voice was quiet as she spoke, untrustworthy now of anyone but the woman next to her. Even of herself. "I'm sorry. You were right all along. We're going to go to the police. We're going to tell them everything."

Her voice was uncharacteristically earnest and it made Morien look up into her face… to find that it was, yet again, hidden by a curtain of loose, now dusty, hair. "I was stupid," Striker voice came, ashamed, "I put your life in danger and I'm sorry. I couldn't…." Her throat contracted. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you. The thought of Paully… the thought of that happening to Morien… made her stomach and throat clench. That's why they had to go to the police. She could trust Nigel and Bruce and their 'family' about as much as she could trust herself. They'd spent the last few days looking over their shoulders. She now knew enough to realise that if they didn't go to the police, they'd spend the rest of their lives doing the same thing - whatever Nigel said. She wanted protection for Morien, and she wanted justice for Lil' Paully.

She wanted vengeance for Paully.

Her eyes still burned with the sight of him. How the fuck was she going to tell Danny about this. How the fuck was she going to tell Thomas…. Poor Thomas….

"Hey," a voice interrupted her thoughts. A warm, beautiful voice. "There's nothing to apologise for, cariad," it said - and she was hearing it with her heart, not her head. "I reckon we're in this together, don't you think?" And a hand squeezed hers.

Striker looked up and saw twinkling, soft eyes looking back at her. She couldn't bring herself to tell Morien what she had seen. At least, not right now, when she was still having a problem keeping down the contents of her stomach. When she was feeling dizzy from shock and adrenaline rush, and her entire body ached from last night's beating.

Instead, she lost herself in the gaze.

"You know something," Morien said, staring back, taking in the dust and the grime that covered the American, and losing herself in the blues and greys that shadowed Striker's own eyes, "you look awful."

The corner of Striker's mouth rose. "Thanks, you look great," she said. Her head dipped for a moment, and Morien could feel a thumb slowly circling her palm. It was excruciating. She was feeling inexplicably exhilarated, after such a narrow escape, and with Striker's smoky voice and half-closed eyes so close…. It was all she could do not to pull Striker's head down and slip her tongue between those slightly parted lips. "Morien," the lips said and something wet and wanting started to pool between Morien's thighs. "Morien, I know we need to go to the police, but I really need…." Oh, yes, need…. "…I really need to get my head together, maybe lie down. Just for a little."

Morien blinked.

"Maybe if we went back to my apartment. I could just get my head together before we go. Is that okay?"

Morien blinked again, focusing on the dark circles under Striker's eyes. She could feel her hands shaking under her fingers. Morien nodded, smiling, only half-wanting to lose the inappropriate and terrifying fantasy of making love to Striker, even if it was just with her gaze. Striker smiled back.

"Ladies, tickets…," a man's voice interrupted.

Striker glanced up at the waiting conductor, and then looked back at Morien. "Do we have any idea where this bus is going?"


* * * * *


Once they discovered that the bus was going in completely the wrong direction, and confident they'd put enough distance between themselves and Tumblety Street, they got off and headed for the familiarity of the Underground.

Then back to Striker's apartment.

There was a strange but familiar light, as if the sky was flashing, as they entered the Bronte Estate. Striker gave a weary sigh, feeling words boil out of her, despite the bone-deep weariness of both her mind and body. "Neighbourhood kids causing trouble again, little shits," she said. "Happens all the time… the police are called… everyone gets disrupted… they round 'em up, take them away… and then it all starts over." She looked at Morien. "But, if the cops are going to be around for a while it'll save us the bother of…." They rounded the corner and Striker stopped in her tracks. "Oh my God," she said. "Danny…."





Chapter 13: The invisible starfall⁵


To Morien, the flashing lights were like a half-forgotten bad dream. Police cars, an ambulance, voices everywhere: there were people being questioned by officers, onlookers hanging over the balustrades of the upper balconies of the apartment blocks, talking amongst themselves, shouting down comments.

To Striker, it had become her worst nightmare. The moment she had seen the ambulance, the paramedics, the stretcher, the moment she had seen the body laid out on it, she had known it was Danny.

She tore across the estate, knocking past bystanders, pushing past policemen, screaming at them, "He's my friend, for fuck's sake, let me by, let me get by." An officer who was interviewing a distraught young Asian woman was almost pushed to the ground.

In the lightning dash, there was one detail that had registered. That body wasn't covered. That body was alive. She crashed almost to her knees at the side of the stretcher, ignoring the paramedics, whose faces she recognised, whose names she knew. She'd worked with them all at Vinnie's. But now all she could think of was, "Danny."

He was unconscious, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. He had a neckbrace, medical pads on his head. His skin was reddened, bleeding in places; there were purple marks under his eyes. "Bro, you're going to be all right, okay. You're going to be all right. I promise."

Morien watched her friend's distress as if it was her own. She started after her, pushing past, her heart pounding for Striker. She was desperate to comfort her, desperate to reassure her, desperate to heal her wounds as Striker was beginning to heal hers.

She bumped into the Asian woman, but turned to put out a supporting hand on the stranger's arm. Only for her rushed apologies to die on her lips. "Asha? Asha, what are you doing here?"

Her work-mate's red-rimmed eyes looked at her blindly for a moment.

"Morien…." There was an uncertain, half-smile of recognition. "I came to pick Danny up. We were supposed to be going to his mum's." A little sob bubbled up. "I found him…."

"Asha… I'm so sorry." Morien put her arms round her friend and Asha willingly leant into her support, but Morien's eyes never left Striker.

She was leaning over Danny, talking to him, the paramedics were trying to move the stretcher into the ambulance but Striker's presence was preventing them.

"Striker…"

"Why didn't you get out, huh? I told you to get out of here." She stroked his dreadlocks. They were stiff with dried blood.

"Striker…." She looked up. A paramedic was standing over her. "We've got to take him now."

"You're taking him to Vinnie's?"

"Yes."

Striker got up, allowing the paramedics to manoeuvre Danny into the back of the ambulance. "Fine," she said, "I'll come with you."

Asha started forward, but it was Morien who put a hand on Striker's shoulder. "Striker, you can't help him when you're panicking. Let Asha go with him."

Striker turned, looking at Morien as if seeing her for the first time. Then she looked past her, to Asha. She saw her distress, her red-rimmed eyes, the need to be with Danny - a need that she recognised in herself, empathised with, but now associated with someone very different from her flat-mate.

She let go… and nodded, and Asha climbed into the ambulance.

Morien was already rummaging for her mobile phone. "I'll call a taxi. We'll be right behind them. I promise." But she wasn't sure if Striker heard her, as the tall woman watched the ambulance move off, its lights flashing, and charge, screaming into the evening. She seemed to be withdrawing: allowing the growing shadows to swallow her.

A police officer advanced on them. "Are you Ms West?" he asked Morien, then turned to Striker as Morien shook her head.

"Ms West, I understand you're Mr Giboyeaux's flat-mate. Do you know of anybody who might have done this?"

Striker looked at him, watching his mouth move, but it was Morien who answered. Her voice was not commanding in the least, it was soft, charming, friendly, but it did command. "I'm sorry, but I don't think now is the time. As you can imagine, Striker's had an awful shock and she needs to be with her friend. Perhaps it would be best if she came to the station to make a statement when she knows more about Danny's condition." She took Striker by the arm and led her away, off the estate, away from the onlookers and the police and the apartment. Striker followed like a child.

The taxi arrived just a few moments later and they sat in tense silence all the way to St Vincent's.


* * * * *


The evening rush hour had been at full swing: cars following a faulty choreography to encircle London in a slow dance. Somehow Danny's ambulance had been able to get through. The taxi hadn't been so lucky.

By the time Striker and Morien made it to St Vincent's A&E department, there was no sign of Danny or Asha.

The moment she was on familiar ground, Striker seemed to stumble on a reserve of energy. With complaints in her ears, she pushed past the queue at reception and shouted. "Ria, Danny Giboyeaux. Where is he?"

The woman at the other side of the desk looked momentarily stunned. "Striker, you aren't supposed to be here. You know what he'll do if…."

"He can go screw himself, now where have they taken him?"

"Excuse me," a loud voice interrupted. "I was here first. I have a nasty ringing in my ears and I want to…."

"You want me to do something about the ringing in your ears?" Morien could see the look in Striker's eyes from where she was standing, and she knew that if it was possible, the would-be patient would be a smoking hole in the floor.

"Well, how rude…," came drifting over from the reception desk, but the patient stepped back.

"Who's got him?" Striker asked again. Please tell me Kish hasn't gone home yet. Please tell me Danny's in his hands.

"Mr Mistry," Ria replied and Striker was gone, leaving a crescendo of comments in her wake and a beleaguered receptionist. Feeling unsure of what to do, Morien waited to one side, watching.

From the alley to here. This is where she had been brought in. This is where she'd been pushed ahead of the broken fingers and the ringing ears and had her life saved. And her soul saved. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the sound of A&E: hushed voices, raised voices, phones ringing, a child crying, someone swearing at an unpredictable drinks machine, complaints, pleas, laughing…. All of life was here… and death was just round the corner. And somehow, Striker seemed to straddle both. This was her place… this was where she worked, where she thrived, where she helped people, where she had helped Morien. For the first time.

"Are you okay?"

Morien opened her eyes into a pair of two perfectly blue eyes that reminded her, as they always had, of the sky over the bay. "Yes, I'm fine. What's the news on Danny?"

"I don't know, they're still running tests, but I've found Asha." She held out a hand which Morien took willingly, and Striker led her into the labyrinth.


* * * * *


They waited in a small, open seating area just off a main corridor: Striker and Morien on a narrow, battered settee; Asha on a deep, lumpy armchair. There was a coffee table in the middle, covered in out-of-date magazines.

They waited in a vacuum of silence. Around them the nurses chatted, laughed, gossiped and tapped down the corridor in their sensible shoes. From time to time a newcomer would hail Striker with a greeting and puzzlement. Striker would acknowledge them with a quiet nod. The only noise she made was from the juddering of her left leg: a nervous twitch that made the heel of her boot tap against the floor. Morien rested her hand on the arm of the settee, covering the material in invisible doodles as a finger traced pattern after unconscious pattern. Asha sat still, her feet together neatly, her hands together on her lap, her eyes closed. Morien wondered if she was praying.

They waited.

A small, white door off the corridor opened and Kishen appeared in neat scrubs, stopping in surprise as he saw who had come to join Asha. "God, Striker, I had no idea this was your Danny," he said.

"In a manner of speaking," Striker replied, glancing at Asha.

"And Miss Llewelyn, nice to see you again."

"And you, Mr Mistry. I'm sorry it's…."

"How's Danny?" Asha interrupted.

Kishen now focused his attention on her. "He's still unconscious. He's had a CT scan and it seems he has an intercranial haemorrhage. So, as soon as he's stabilised he'll be going in for surgery…."

"An intercranial haemorrhage?"

"He's bleeding into his brain," Striker said in a quiet voice.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Asha looked at Kishen.

"It's very hard to say at this point. We'll have to see how he comes through the surgery."

"You mean he could die?"

Kishen's mouth opened and closed; and then: "I'm not going to make you any guarantees. Please understand that he's in a very serious condition. It's hard to say what even a potential outcome could be at this stage, until we get in there and have a good look. He might have every chance of a full recovery…."

Asha backed away, sitting heavily on the armchair, her face in her hands. Morien followed her, crouching down in front of her, her hand comforting on her knee.

"Kish, do you know what happened to him?" Striker asked.

Kishen shrugged. "Beaten around the head with something blunt…. Striker, does this have anything to do with your arrest?"

Striker swallowed, wondering what to admit, feeling defensive. She said in a low voice, "With Danny it could just as easily be an irate husband, you know? But…."

"But…? Striker, we can't be sure, neither of us is in forensics, but Eric Haywood thinks he's seen this kind of thing before. He thinks Danny's been pistol-whipped. Now, I've got to go back in, but at some point you're going to have to tell me what the hell's going on, all right?"

Striker nodded, her head low.

Kishen turned away. "And you're obviously determined to deprive me of sleep today, aren't you?"

Striker smiled a wry smile that didn't reach her eyes as Kishen disappeared through the door. She stood for a moment, sending a silent prayer after him, before she felt a warm presence at her side. It gave her momentary burst of joy to know that she didn't have to turn round to know exactly who it was.

"What did he say?" Morien asked, quietly.

"That if this isn't linked with Nigel and Bruce then it's one hell of a coincidence."

"Because we broke into the chapel?"

Striker turned, her head bowed so close that Morien was breathing in her whispered words. "It can't be. Danny was attacked while we were there. They must have been after something else, and Danny got in their way. Stupid bastard… I told him…."

And then a loud, slightly nasal voice intoned, "Ms West, what are you doing here? Your employment has been terminated."

He was short, middle-aged and balding - and his expensive suit was filled to bursting with plump flesh. He wore a yellow polka dot bow tie.

It was this that Striker focused on as she swayed on her feet, because she knew that if she looked at this sonofabitch's face, looked him in the eye, then she would follow it up with a fist.

Her voice was tight with a surge of barely-controlled anger, and she had to shove her hands into her pockets to stop taking him by the impeccably tailored lapels. "I know I'm fired. Though it seems I was the last to know."

"I believe a message was left for you to telephone me. You didn't. In the meantime there is a formal letter being sent to your home address."

"Why have I lost my job?" Her voice had become quiet.

"I believe you've been charged with possession and dealing of a class-A drug. That's a serious offence, Ms West."

"You believe? You believe!?" Striker took another step towards him. Morien put a hand out, catching her sleeve to still her progress. Striker didn't seem to notice, even though she stopped. "You won't even wait for confirmation… solid evidence of my crime?! Do you really hate me or something?" Striker asked the rotund man. "Am I that bad at my job that this hospital can't bring itself to support me in any way? Give me the benefit of the doubt.... Believe me when I say I'm innocent?"

"You're not bad at your job, Ms West, but you have an unfortunate attitude…."

Striker was on the move again, and again a gentle hand stilled her. "Attitude?! In whose opinion? Have you asked the staff here? Is my attitude so unfortunate that they can't work with me? And what about the patients who have been in my care? Do they think I've got such a bad attitude that I shouldn't be working here?" She stopped for a moment, apparently considering…. "You know, you're right. It's a serious offence. Suspension, under the circumstances, maybe that I could understand. But you, you asshole, you see it as an opportunity to get rid of someone who questions your authority, don't you?"

There was a silence. The whole waiting area was silent. There was silence at the nurses' station down the hall. There was silence along the whole corridor. Morien wondered if she could hear bated breath on the floor above.

And then the round man spoke. "You haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

Striker shook her head, ripping her arm away from Morien's grasp. "For your information, you stupid, inconsiderate bastard, I am here because my best friend is badly injured and might… might die. Now if I can't come here as a normal member of the public to support my friend then I will forcibly remove the rod that is apparently wedged up your fat, clenched ass…."

"Is that a threat, Ms West? Surely you realise that a threat such as that, in front of witnesses, vindicates my actions?"

Striker smiled. "Yeah, you little sack of shit, it's a threat, because I will get you where it hurts you the most. You take away my right as a member of the public to be here, and I will sue not just this hospital but your sorry ass for every penny you've got. Do you understand?"

And it was this that seemed to get to him. He swallowed, noticeably, and his skin paled. He ran a stubby finger along his collar and took a step back.

"Of course… that doesn't include that tribunal I'll see you in when I'm cleared of the drugs charges."

"Ms West," he said, feeling the need to clear his throat. "Of course I accept your reasons for being on hospital premises. I simply felt it necessary…."

"Fuck off," Striker said. And he did.

Striker looked as if every last vestige of energy had drained from her in the outburst. She backed up to the seat, almost staggering, and crashed down. Morien followed, waiting for her reaction, not even aware of the withdrawal of prying eyes and whispered comments.

Slowly, Striker looked up, looked her in the face, and then all Morien felt was the warm weight of the tall woman's body as it came down on her, arms holding her, a head resting on her shoulder, and a shudder as if tears were on their way. Morien responded, enveloping Striker in an embrace, stroking the hair - so loose now it could barely be described as braided - stroking the broad plain of her back through the leather jacket, dislodging chapel dust. "Hey," she said, "you were great. And you do do a great job here."

There was a sound from her shoulder that could have been a wry chuckle, but could have been a sob.

Morien continued, caressing, holding as if she had Macsen in her arms, not a thirty-two-year-old, six foot woman. "Everything's going to be okay, Striker. I promise."

Again, the chuckle, the sob. Morien felt Striker shift slightly, and moist words breathed against her neck. "You're a magical person, Morien, but not even you can promise that."

"Maybe," Morien replied, "but I have to believe it. And I know that you don't deserve this, Striker. You've been through hell this last couple of days, and it's not fair."

Striker lifted her head, and Morien was surprised that her cheeks were dry; there were no tears in her eyes. "No, you don't deserve this. Asha doesn't deserve this. Danny doesn't deserve any of this. Me…."

"You don't deserve this."

Morien's gaze was so determined it almost scared Striker, but she argued anyway, putting a hand to Morien's cheek. "Yes, I do. Don't you see? I've fucked up. Again. This is what I do, Morien. Wherever I go, however hard I try, it goes wrong. If you know what's good for you, get out now."

"Striker, you're tired, you don't know what you're saying…."

"I know exactly what I'm saying. You don't have to stay here anyway. There's no reason for you to stay. Danny's my friend, he's Asha's boyfriend. Go home, honey. Live your life, huh?"

"No way, Striker. I'm staying. I might not know Danny so well, but he's a good person, and I need to know that he's going to be okay. And I'm Asha's friend, and… I'm your friend. And I need to know that you're going to be okay, too."

"Oh, I'll be fine," Striker said, showing her teeth. "I'll carry on with my life, leaving misery and destruction in my wake, as I always do. I've done pretty well here… maybe it's time to move on…."

Morien was getting angry. She glanced at Asha who was self-consciously immersed in a magazine, patently and politely ignoring them. They were conversing in whispers, but Morien's whispers were getting harsh. She wanted to spit a thousand words at Striker, but she left it at four. "You don't mean that." It was a statement not a question.

"Why not? I've got nothing to keep me here. No job. Danny… if he pulls through… he's got Asha now. And there's no sign of mom. Do you know how many Wests and Baileys there are in London?" Striker reached inside her jacket and pulled out a cigarette packet, tapping it with fidgeting fingers.

"Striker…" Morien pulled Striker's face towards her, holding it to ensure she would hear and understand what she was about to say. "Striker… you have me."

Striker's eyes were a cold blue, as beautiful as the sky over a snow plain. She smiled, a warm, loving smile, and the cold seemed to thaw. "I have you, and you are a good, sweet person. You are the best, Morien. And I have been honoured to know you. But, you have Sophie." She got up. "And I need a cigarette."


* * * * *


Morien watched as the swinging of the double doors emphasised Striker's departure. A small worm of doubt ate at her, asking the question: would she come back?

She had to grip the seat to stop herself from making a dash after her.

But what Striker had said was true. She had Sophie, and three was most definitely going to be a crowd.

So what was stopping her from putting pen to paper right now, tonight, and telling Sophie that they were finished?

Fear.

She knew that at some point Striker was going to leave - when she realised that Morien wanted commitment, when she realised how difficult a commitment to her was going to be - and hadn't Striker just said that herself? And then she would be alone, with no one. But Sophie. Even though Sophie was on another continent, in another world.

She knew that it would only be a matter of time before Sophie left too. She knew her girlfriend well enough to know that when reality struck she would be unable to take care of her needs now. Unable or unwilling.

She loved Sophie, she knew that. But she was in love with Striker.

Sophie was kind, loving, safe. Striker was dangerous, volatile… exciting. And that was just friendship. Morien knew as a lover she would be so much more. She had seen glimpses of the passion on which Striker kept a not so tight rein. She had been witness to the simmering emotions just over the last few days. What would happen if she let that passion go free? Striker was a fantasy. A beautiful, miraculous fantasy that was only staving off the inevitable.

And what was the likelihood of Striker ever lavishing that passion on her?

None.

But she also knew that her relationship with Sophie would never survive just a simple friendship with Striker. It would be too encompassing. Two would be a friendship, three would be… Too much… too much….

So should she let Striker go? Should she let Sophie go? Or should she just live the fantasy… a little longer… just a little longer? Except this fantasy seemed to go hand-in-hand with guns and violence and people getting hurt.

And drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

When they had heard the news about Danny, she and Striker would go to the police. There was even a police presence somewhere in the hospital, she knew. Waiting for news, as they were. Waiting to see if it was assault or murder that they'd be investigating.

But everything seemed dependent on whether Striker would ever come back.

The door had stopped swinging a long time ago.

"She's something else, isn't she?"

In all that time, Morien had forgotten Asha, although the other woman had dropped the magazine some time ago to watch her colleague.

"In all sorts of ways," Morien replied, still staring at the door.

"Danny talks about her a lot. I thought they were a couple when I first met him. He kept asking me out and I kept saying no because I thought he was already in a relationship. It took me ages to work out that they were just flat-mates."

"Just flat-mates."

"And good friends."

"Best friends." Morien closed her eyes, still seeing the closed door on her eyelids. She needed to get her mind off Striker or she was going to go insane. She finally focused on Asha. "I didn't even know you knew Danny. When did you meet him?"

Asha smiled. A wistful smile, that turned her lovely face into a work of art. "A while ago. I go to clubs. My parents think I'm round at my auntie's, but I go out with my cousin instead. Danny just kept showing up at the same clubs. We have the same taste in music. I went to a couple of his sets at the Boom Shack and we got talking. I always thought he was… really gorgeous." Another shy smile.

Morien nodded her agreement, and responded to Asha's puzzled look with, "I'm gay, not blind."

"Funny, isn't it? You and Striker, me and Danny, and there we were, sitting next to each other every day, talking about the intricacies of the Woodhall Estate project." There was a pause. "Morien, can I ask you something?"

"Mmm?"

"Have you and Sophie split up?"

"No… no. Striker and I, we're friends. We haven't… don't… you know?"

"Oh… right," Asha responded in a tone dripping with good-natured disbelief. But her smile waned. "No, I shouldn't have asked. I'm in no position to judge you, Morien," she continued. "I lied at work today. I told them I had a dentist's appointment so I could leave early and meet Danny. And right now, my parents think I'm round at my auntie's helping with the new baby. Tonight, they're going to find out that I've been lying to them all this time, that I've been doing everything that a good, Hindu girl shouldn't be doing, and that the man I'm in love with is not even Indian, let alone Hindu. But it doesn't matter… because the only thing that matters is that Danny…." Her voice, calm and strong until that point, suddenly broke. "This is so unbelievable. This shouldn't be happening…."

"He'll be all right," Morien said, reaching for her hand. He has to be all right. For Asha's sake, for Striker's sake.

She jumped as the door swung open.

And the relief almost made her light-headed.

"I thought you guys might be hungry so I brought some sandwiches." Striker placed the plastic containers on the table. "If you can call them sandwiches. Vinnie's isn't known for its cuisine."


* * * * *


"I called Danny's parents," Striker said as she watched Morien and Asha pick their way through the sandwiches.

Asha looked up from an unenthusiastic lettuce leaf. "Thank you. I wouldn't have known what to say."

Striker shrugged. "We thought it best that they don't come down right now, as there's nothing to do but wait. Although we'll probably get the whole Giboyeaux clan arriving at some point. I said we'd keep them updated."

Asha nodded.

"Don't you want anything to eat?" Morien asked her, offering up a drooping egg sandwich.

Striker shook her head. "Not hungry," she said, and looked away. She wasn't going to admit that panic had driven her out into the early evening, and that not even the expectation of a newly-lit cigarette could mellow the images in her mind. She'd abandoned her smoke and found instead the nearest toilet and herself on her knees on the tiled floor, vomiting all the images, all the shock and the horror of the last few hours, into the bowl.

I can't take any more of this. It was almost a prayer as she leant her hot forehead on the dingy paint of the toilet wall. I don't know how I'm going to go on.

She had no job.

She was scared to go back home.

Danny's life was on a knife-edge.

Paully was… dead. She swallowed, convulsively.

And she and Morien were in so deep she could see the sharks circling above them.

Welcome to reality.

She and Morien.

Me and Morien.

This might be hell, but at least they were in it together. And despite everything, the thought made her feel better.

This time… I'm not alone. And I'm sure as fuck not leaving Morien to handle this on her own.

She had got up, flushed the remains of her appetite, and had gone to give reality a dose of its own medicine.

But that didn't mean she could face the hospital's idea of food yet.

"Are you all right, Striker?" Morien asked, abandoning the sandwich.

Striker shrugged again. "Tired, I guess."

"You could go home."

"Yeah right, and get my head kicked in. Besides I want to be here for Danny."

"Then stretch out here. There's room." Striker eyed the narrow settee uncertainly. "Just shut up and get your head down, stalker."

"You really are a nag," Striker said, but carefully folded herself onto the seat. "Um… this isn't going to work."

"Well, put your head down here then," Morien said, patting her lap.

Striker stared at her for a moment, panic and exhaustion warring in her head. Exhaustion won. She collapsed onto Morien's lap, her eyes closing almost immediately, just at the bliss of being horizontal, let alone the soft, warmth of her pillow.

"You comfortable?" Morien asked, looking down at Striker's relaxing face.

"Heaven," Striker mumbled.

Morien smiled, and glanced at Asha, suddenly aware of the first blush of… embarrassment? Arousal? Feeling awkward, and wondering why she had suggested this in the first place, she tried to find a place for her hands and settled for a compromise: one on the arm of the settee, the other resting gently… platonically… on Striker's right shoulder.

Maybe she could do this.


* * * * *


Time passed.

Again they sat in silence. Occasionally Morien and Asha would swap a comment, but mostly they left each other to their own thoughts, their own fears.

Morien looked down at Striker's sleeping face, mentally tracing the gentle incline of a cheek, the strong, determined jaw, her eyelashes lying dark against her pale skin, still a little dirty from the chapel. She looked like a sleeping cat… a big cat… a panther, wild and dangerous and beautiful.

Trying not to disturb Striker, she reached down to her bag, pulling out the pad and pen she carried with her - grateful that she'd remembered them today. Striker shifted on her lap but then settled again almost in the same position. Gently, Morien started to sketch. Despite the restrictive circumstances, this was so different than before. Her former portrayal had been from memory, and had been coloured by wonder and fear before she'd destroyed it. Now she had her model on her lap, her warm breath against her thighs, even through the material of her trousers. It was intimate and arousing and as personal as a kiss.

Asha glanced over at her, but Morien was too absorbed to care about what Asha might think now. Maybe later she'd sketch Asha. It would be something for Danny to have when he woke up.

A drowsy voice drifted up from her lap. "Hey, are you drawing me?"

Morien smiled. "Yes. Do you mind?"

There was a pause. "No, I guess not. Though you'd have to be one hell of an artist to make me look good right now."

"You always look good."

"You should see me first thing in the morning."

"I've seen you first thing in the morning, remember? I'm sorry if I woke you."

"I wasn't asleep," Striker replied. And she hadn't been. She didn't think she'd ever sleep again. But she'd allowed Morien's warmth to lull her into an almost meditative state, although still sensitive of the sounds around her, the familiar bustle of a hospital settling in for the night. Had Kishen appeared she would have been on her feet before the others.

She hadn't allowed herself to think, merely to be, her mind thankfully blank. She had only allowed herself to be aware of Morien beneath her: the scent of her, the soft touch of her fingers on her shoulder… the delicious closeness of her centre. Morien smelt of lavender and the sun-warmed scent of kindness and, hazily, distantly… maybe she just imagined it… the mouth-watering scent of arousal. Striker had allowed herself to sink into a reverie of Morien and herself. Not sexual - she was too tired for that excitement even in fantasy form - but a beautiful memory of the last time she'd slept, with Morien in her arms.

Until the object of her desire had moved under her.

"Am I really going to have to do something drastic to get you to sleep?" Morien asked, bringing a hand up to brush the overlong, errant bangs from her forehead. She noticed how Striker's eyes flickered shut at the action, so she did it again.

"What you got in mind?" Striker asked with a crooked grin.

"I'm sure they've got some spare ether or something round here," Morien replied, stroking Striker's hair again.

"Ether? You're no fun," Striker said, her eyes drifting shut despite herself.

Just like Macsen, Morien thought, and again ran her fingers over Striker's dark mane. Striker's eyes stayed closed, and she made a noise that sounded to Morien like a purr. A big cat's growling, contented purr.

Morien smiled and left a hand to rest in Striker's escaping tresses, while the other continued to sketch.


* * * * *


Time passed.

It was quieter now. The hospital had given one final, echoing yawn of noise and settled down for the night. It had been dark for some time, or at least Morien imagined it to be without the aid of a window. Her watch told her it was past dark and into pitch, had the lights of London allowed it.

Asha had curled herself into a ball on the big armchair, lost in her own thoughts and dreams. Halfway between sleep and waking.

Morien sat, her head back on the settee, one hand still in Striker's hair, the other resting back on her shoulder. She wasn't sure if she was asleep when she felt the tall woman stir, and she let go of her hold begrudgingly.

Striker got to her feet, stretching the kinks out of her back, and smiled. "Do you want something from the drinks machine?"

"Tea, if they have it."

"They call it tea… if you want to risk it."

"Is the coffee any better?"

"No. Just disgusting in a different way."

"I'll risk the tea, then. Or anything hot and wet."

Striker lifted an eyebrow and disappeared through the double doors.

Time passed before the double doors swung again, and Striker backed through them, carefully carrying three steaming plastic cups. She gratefully placed her cargo on the table. "Is coffee okay, Asha? I wasn't sure what you'd like."

Asha roused herself and reached for the cup eagerly. "Coffee's fine, thank you."

"I hope it's okay, but I called Danny's mom again. I thought we'd better keep her in touch, you know?" Striker glanced up, almost shamefacedly. Would Asha feel she was interfering, or taking charge when she had no place to? She was finding it hard to let go of Danny. To let Asha have him… have responsibility over him.

But Asha looked grateful. "Thank you, Striker. Really…," she said, her voice insistent. "I'm not sure how I could cope with this without you."

Striker looked embarrassed, but Morien placed a hand on hers and squeezed.

Asha continued, "And you, Morien. Thank you."

"That's what friends are for," Morien replied. She took a sip of tea and made a face. "You weren't joking, were you?" she said, watching the smile appear on Striker's face, but she hazarded another mouthful, enjoying the warmth if not the taste.

"Striker," Asha ventured, "how long does an operation like this take?"

Striker shrugged, staring into her coffee. "It's hard to say. Depends on what they find and how long it takes to find it, depends on how much needs repairing, depends on…," a deep sigh, "…complications."

"Are there likely to be complications?"

Striker shrugged again. "I'm no brain surgeon…." Then she continued, "He'll probably be asleep for a long while afterwards. But if all goes well, it should only be a few hours. Knowing Dan, he'll wake up wondering where his music system is."

They all smiled.

"And if all doesn't go well?" Asha felt she had to ask.

"If he makes it through the surgery, the trauma of that, let alone the attack, might cause the brain to swell excessively. In that case, it's possible they might have to…."

"…induce coma." It was Morien who finished the sentence. And this time it was Striker who clasped Morien's hand.

They sat in silence.


* * * * *


Time passed.

Tired beyond reason, Striker was having difficulty focusing on anything. She found her eyes and her mind settling on trivial thoughts and sights, and then taking off like a disturbed fly. It fired words at her that seemed to come from nowhere. Or some dim and distant past. Or maybe some distant future.



Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.



A wayward lock of Morien's hair peeped out from under her cap. In the miserable light of the corridor it gleamed a strange gold.

Striker wanted to touch it, run the soft curl through her fingers, but her attention was called by the open pad on the coffee table.

Morien had drawn Asha: pensive, distant and beautiful. Strange how a few ink marks on a bit of paper could inspire such feeling.



And you alone can hear the invisible starfall.



Striker hadn't seen Morien's sketch of her. It was only on the page before. She could just lean forward and turn the page….

But the shoes of a passing nurse distracted her. They squeaked irritatingly on the polished floor. The floor was very polished. From here she could see the lights reflected in its surface.



Listen.



It was very quiet. She could hear the cries of someone scared and in pain in a distant ward. She could hear the squeak of the nurse's shoes echoing for what seemed like miles until it was smothered by the swish of the double doors. She could hear starfall.



Come closer.



Another door opened and Striker found herself wondering how Kishen could still look like he'd stepped from the pages of GQ after he'd been in surgery for almost six hours.

And then a sudden realisation of adrenaline launched her off the settee and across the corridor. Her actions roused the dozing Morien and Asha and both followed on her heels.

"Kish?" Striker asked breathlessly, the only word spoken in an anthem of silent questions.

"We've taken him up to the ICU. He's stable. He's more than stable. He's positively okay with it. The bleed was tough to get to, but once we got there it was routine. And Danny didn't give us any problems at all."

"No complications?" Asha asked.

"No complications. Obviously, he's not out of the woods yet. We'll have to see how the next twenty four hours affect him. We'll be monitoring him very closely and, of course, at this early stage we can't judge if his brain has sustained any permanent damage or may be adversely affected in some other way…." Kishen's eyes flicked over Morien for a moment. "But, as far as the operation goes, it was a success."

Asha started to cry, big sobbing tears of relief and Morien immediately put her arms round her friend to comfort her.

Striker was left, her mouth open, allowing the warmth of relief to seep through a body that was stiff with emotional torpor. She was vaguely aware that Kishen was still talking. "Now I'm off home to see if my wife remembers me, and to get some sleep. Unless there's anything else I can do for you?"

Striker just smiled, and held her hand out to her friend, which he took. His voice softened. "Eric will be on hand, in case anything happens, or if anybody has any other questions, okay?" Striker nodded, suddenly incapable of words, and watched as Kishen disappeared again.

"You okay?" Morien asked at her shoulder.

"I think so," Striker replied.



From where you are you can hear their dreams.



She struggled to form a coherent thought and then, "I'm gonna go call his parents, okay?"

And she went back through the double doors.


* * * * *


They had stayed on, waiting for consciousness, although whether it was Danny's or their own had become uncertain in the small hours.

Striker and Morien couldn't go home: afraid now for their lives and their sanity.

Asha couldn't go home: afraid of her parents and of leaving Danny.

And then time seemed to move again and the shift changed. Not the disordered changing of the hospital guard, but the sudden arrival of the Giboyeaux family - having spent their own sleepless night in more comfortable surroundings, they were desperate to see their son for themselves. To give their support, to take their positions on the narrow settee and the deep armchair.

Striker made the introductions, summoned Eric Haywood to offer his reassurances, and slipped quietly outside - to be greeted by the unexpected appearance of morning.

She found the bench outside A&E where just a week ago she'd sat with Kishen and watched the personnel come and go and wondered what she was doing with her life. Now she sat alone, watching the same view, with the same pigeons picking at the same rubbish. Just like then, she was terrified of setting foot into the outside world, terrified of what she could do.

But now everything had changed. Now she was terrified of what could be done to her, and terrified of what might be done to Morien. Attacked? Pistol-whipped? Murdered?

Her head was full of death… and drunk, Welsh poet.

She lit a cigarette.

And a little while later, Morien found her - cigarette hanging from numb fingertips, her head down almost in her hands.

Morien sat, quietly, on the bench next to Striker, thinking her own thoughts, feeling her own fears, but with a quiet determination infusing her from the decision she had made.

Eventually, she spoke, a quiet voice in the wakefulness of a London morning.

"Striker," she said. "I'm going home."

Slowly, Striker sat up, straightening her back, stretching her arms, looking as if her actions were not helping in the least. "'Kay," she said, "let's get you a cab."

"No, Striker, I'm going home. To Wales. To Lleuadraeth." Striker looked round at her, her eyes wide. "I can't stay here. I'm scared."

Striker's mouth opened. Then closed again. A deep sense of loss was already creeping like ivy at Morien's words. What was it going to feel like when she was gone? "Oh. Well, I think that's a good idea. You get out of here. Be safe."

So that was the decision made. With Morien gone, there wouldn't be any point. She wouldn't fight the drugs charges. She'd be found guilty of dealing. She'd end up in prison. Maybe there she'd be safe, at least for a little while.

Morien regarded her for a moment. A faint puzzlement creased her brow under the cap's peak. "No, Striker. You don't understand. You're a target too… more so. Come with me."

Striker blinked, consciousness rippling like a waking haze. "Come with you...? To Wales?"

Morien nodded.

Striker didn't quite know what to think, and expressions warred on her tired face. Go with Morien… the thought of simply going away with Morien was so blissful she suddenly became glad she was sitting down.

But there were practicalities to think of.

"I'm on police bail. I'm due in court in a couple of days. I can't leave London."

Morien slipped off the bench, dropping to her knees in front of Striker. "Look, we'll play it by the book. We'll go to the police, as we said: tell them everything, and I mean everything. About my burglary, about the attack on you, about Danny, about these Bruce and Nigel blokes, about Tumblety Street. And we'll tell them where you'll be, we'll give them dad's address, and we'll let them sort out this mess."

Striker paused again, her mouth open. Going away with Morien…. "But Danny…."

Morien put her hands on Striker's knees, leaning into them. "Danny is in the best possible place. He's got Mr Mistry looking after him… he's got his entire family in there, and he's got Asha. Striker, I need you." The breath caught in Striker's throat. "Please," Morien continued, taking the tall woman's hand in hers.

Suddenly, Striker got up, forcing Morien to get up too.

Morien momentarily wondered if she had been too forward - if Striker would think this was simply more nagging - but she needn't have worried. Striker looked at her, a fire revived in the tired blue of her eyes. "We could go back to my place, pack a few things. Can't stay too long there, though. We still don't know why they attacked Danny. But, maybe the police are still there. We could talk to them. I guess we should keep it with the guys from Clarke Street, huh? How 'bout you? We need to get you back to your flat so you can pack…."

"I don't need to pack, I have stuff at dad's already." Morien started to smile, her humour driven by Striker's renewed energy, and then moved as the tall woman started striding towards the street.

"That's good. That's great. It'll take less time." Striker was babbling and she knew it and she sure as fuck didn't care. "Hey, maybe we can hire a car. How long would it take to drive? I should have asked, can you drive?"

Morien slowed, and it was a moment before Striker realised she wasn't by her side. "What's wrong?"

"I can drive… but I had to surrender my license."

"Surrender your…. Why?"

"Striker…." Now it was Morien's turn to stand there, her mouth open, with no sound apparent. She had thought Striker knew. She had hoped Striker knew. Why was this admission as difficult as the first day she'd been diagnosed? Nothing was coming. If she thought about this then she would never say it.

So, she just said the words. "Striker, I have epilepsy. I thought you knew."

And here it was, the change: the dismay, the polite excuses, and she would be left watching Striker West's flowing dark hair disappearing into the grey, misty dawn of the metropolis.

So she was shocked when she heard the humour… humour?… in Striker's tone. "Some stalker I am, huh? I must have missed that." Morien looked up and the understanding in those blue eyes made her want to cry. "So, you can't drive right now. That's okay. No problem. My U.S. license is still valid... just."

No painful horror? No gushing pity? She just carries on the conversation? I love this woman. Morien smiled. "I'm not driving anywhere with you."

"I'm a good driver!"

"You're a good driver who hasn't slept for… how long now?"

"Just show me the nearest coffee pot."

"We're going by train. It takes ages and we have to change three times, but we can get as far as Pwllheli, then we get the bus."

Striker grew serious for a moment. "Morien, won't we be easier to follow on the train? They're still going to be after us."

"We are going by train." Morien's green eyes brooked now argument.

"Nag," said Striker. "Hang on… back up. We have to change three times?! Where is this place? Llareggub?"

"Heavens no, that's easier to get to."


Continued in Chapter 14….